


the secrets of heaven and earth

by horriblesupper



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley, The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (but make it science), (don't worry it gets better), Alternate Universe - Frankenstein (Mary Shelley), Child Death Mention, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Interrupted Blowjob, M/M, Parenthood, Temporary Character Death, assorted surgeons, because the idea of francis as victor/james as clerval wouldn’t leave me alone, but also because he’s fronkensteen, i'm sorry there isn't any actual porn in this, lots of morgue and cadaver talk, references to past francis/sophia, technically this counts as body snatching i guess???????, the boys adopt themselves a baby jop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horriblesupper/pseuds/horriblesupper
Summary: The body on the table is that of a young man no older than nineteen, with night-dark hair and the slightest hint of stubble darkening his pale cheeks. There is something delicate about his finely wrought face, the slight point and upturned slope of his nose, the long lashes of his closed eyes. The boy looks like he is asleep, and Francis can feel James touch the small of his back very lightly.James and Francis welcome the arrival of a beautiful baby boy.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange





	the secrets of heaven and earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozymegdias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozymegdias/gifts).



“Let’s have a child.”

Francis damn near chokes on James’ cock. He may be a student of the human body, but he has _never_ heard of conception through buggery, and is doubtful that Avicenna or Dioscorides, those stalwarts of medicine, had ever come across such a thing. Although he rather suspects Pliny the Elder might have had some ideas on this, but ones he’d rather the weird old man had kept to himself, given his track record.

He coughs, wipes his mouth and collects himself, looking up at James quizzically. “James, _love of my life_ , what in the name of _sweet Christ_ does that mean?”

James huffs a small laugh and strokes Francis’ hair. “It means I would like to have a child with you.”

“That really doesn’t explain a lot, my love.”

James rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and pulls Francis up the bed to face him properly. _You can be so dense sometimes,_ his expression seems to say. “I love you, Francis, and want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days with you - that much is plain. But… “ he sighs softly, looking down a little, “I have found myself in an unusually brooding mood recently - you must have noticed that - and, well- The plain truth of it is that I would like to expand our family beyond just us and the books.”

That much was true - James _had_ been more pensive in the past few months, but Francis had honestly put that down to the unusually grim summer they’d been having - something to do with a volcanic eruption in Iceland, as he’d heard. True, James had been spending ever more time with the Coningham brood whenever his duties at the university permitted him to do so, and often spoke at length and with fondness about William’s children, but it had never occurred to Francis that James could actually want to have a family of his own, especially given his proclivities towards other men.

He must look very unsure, because James’ expression softens. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, Francis. And you can refuse me, too. I understand this is very much out of the blue, and I would not hold it against you if you said no. This is not a decision for me to make for the both of us.”

Francis nods, shifts a little. “And how- How do you envision this, exactly? I am not entirely certain I follow your logic.”

“You and I are in agreement that there is no way of us… conceiving, yes?”

Francis gestures vaguely between their groins with an unimpressed expression, much to James’ delight. “I think that much is plain, James.”

“And in your studies, you have been working on animating animal tissue using electrical charges, yes?”

“Yes?” This is no conversation to be having in the middle of congress, surely, and his prick rather seems to agree.

“Then my proposed course of action would be the application of Mr Galvani’s ideas and techniques to the human body. Surely with a powerful enough charge, it would be possible to restore life in something as large as a human.”

“Are you… You are not suggesting we reanimate a baby?” Francis frowns, feeling uneasy at the prospect. It was one thing electrifying rodents and frogs’ legs, but quite another to do the same to a human child.

James looks horrified. “Absolutely not! I shan’t be a _nursemaid_ to a wailing child - a young man, Francis! Or a woman, I do not mind which, but someone who will not soil their drawers every hour.”

Francis huffs a small, surprisingly relieved laugh, and taps James’ chest playfully. “Well, I’m glad you’re being practical as ever about this, James.”

With a laugh, he shifts closer and wraps his arms around Francis’ middle, resting his head on his shoulder. “Think on it, my dear. A young mind we could nurture, a child we could indulge and dote on. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“But why not take in an orphan from the Foundlings? Surely that would be easier?”

Francis can practically _feel_ another one of James’ eye rolls. “Easier, yes, but it wouldn’t be _ours._ Not in the same way.”

Francis isn’t sure he follows, still, but drops it for the time being. There is no rush, James had said, and there will be plenty of time to have a proper conversation. Instead, he takes one of James’ hands and presses a gentle kiss to the knuckles. “And you’ve thought this through? You are sure that you’re ready to be a parent?”

“Never been more certain of anything in my life.” There is conviction in his voice, and a careful, blossoming hope. Francis is privy to the most intimate details of James’ origin, knows how keenly he felt the lack of legitimate parentage despite the Coninghams’ unconditional love. To be able to be a present and attentive father, a permanent fixture in their child’s life would mean the world to him, he is sure of that.

“I will think on it,” Francis mutters against James’ knuckles, but he already knows he will sooner or later acquiesce. James is incredibly convincing when he wants to be, and there is a not insignificant part of him that is already warming to the idea of nurturing a young life with James, resurrected or not. "No promises.”

He can feel James’ face split into an enormous grin against his shoulder before he moves down the bed, pressing kisses into Francis’ skin as he goes. The hair on his chest and stomach stands on end, as if electrified under James’ breath.

“For what it’s worth, my dear Francis,” James murmurs into the gentle slope of his inner thigh, “I think you would make a wonderful father.”

* * *

“Really, Francis, James is right - my uncle has multiple times made mention of your reputation at the university.”

He makes a slight face at that - he is certain that Sir John harbours no special love for him, which is certainly not helped by his previous involvement with Sophia, and Francis’ propensity for being a difficult man to work with.

“Which is…?”

Sophia beams at him at the same as James, who, sat beside her on the sofa, is balancing a teacup and the remnants of a dainty cake on his knee. They are so very much alike, it is little wonder that Francis is as besotted with James as he once was with her. “Word is that you treat your students like your very own sons; you would damn near give each one of them the very shirt off your back if they so asked. I’d say you have many years of fatherhood under your belt already.”

Francis opens his mouth to protest, but promptly shuts it and shakes his head with a small laugh. “I never ought to have introduced you two to each other, no matter the situation I will always be outnumbered.”

“Honestly, Francis, we _are_ capable of having differing opinions,” James butts in through a mouthful of cake, brushing the crumbs from his lap. “I, for instance, think you look rather fetching in green.”

Francis and Sophia roll their eyes in tandem; had all of their inclinations been different, the three of them might have formed a sort of a romantic unit of their own, so similar they all are in their varying habits and interests; but even without that Francis is grateful for the amiable atmosphere between his current and former paramours, gentle ribbing and all. If nothing else, he certainly has a type.

“In any case, gentlemen,” Sophia grins, “I am at your disposal wherever you might find me useful. I can help you plan out the curriculum, and have some friends who would be willing to help with sourcing textbooks. I also have access to some _rather helpful_ contacts through my uncle, and with any luck I may be able to put in a word for you to access the full extent of Mr Galvani’s notes.”

Francis eyes grow to the size of dinner plates; James’ teacup and plate clatter to the side table next to him. “You would be willing to do that?”

“Of course - anything to advance the twin noble causes of fatherhood and science,” she smiles beatifically at them both, dissolving into a fit of laughter when James throws his arms around her and smacks his lips against her cheek loudly.

“You- You truly are a wonder, Sophia,” he proclaims, and kisses her other cheek for good measure, much to her delight. “And you will be an aunt to our offspring, of course?”

She laughs again and gently pushes him away, smoothing down her skirts from where James has creased them. “If you’ll have me,” she smiles, “I would be delighted.”

“Of course!” James and Francis both exclaim; they have discussed this right at the beginning, and agree that having an additional presence outside of their household would do the child immense good, as Francis is not nearly as frequent a fixture of London society as James would have him be, and the child must learn how to be _around_ other people without adopting Francis’ sometimes begrudging attitude; and besides, Sophia is always a welcome sight in their rooms, always bringing news and excitement and glittering with energy, like a breath of spring air.

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking at length about the various benefits and drawbacks of the methods used by Galvani and Volta, and the potential for recognition in the scientific community when their work is revealed to the world, before moving onto more frivolous topics like the latest London gossip and news from their mutual friends. When James gets up to fetch more tea, Sophia reaches across the way to pat Francis’ knee gently, her expression soft.

“I know you have been fretting about this, Francis, and for what it’s worth - you will do a splendid job raising this child. I just know it.”

* * *

The next eight months are a flurry of preparations - there is the matter of securing a larger set of rooms to settle, for their new addition will need their own space, and James had also insisted on a more spacious study to fill with books for their scholarly enrichment. Sophia accompanies him on endless viewings before finally settling on a comfortable apartment in the curiously named Polygon in Somers Town, and then on even more endless shopping trips to purchase all of the tasteful but necessary trappings of domesticity.

Francis, for his part, busies himself with reading - a _lot_ of it, even by his own standards, all thanks to Sophia’s efforts with sweet-talking Galvani himself - and designing the apparatus to be used in the procedure - it needs to be larger and more powerful than what he uses for his experiments on the little critters. He puts in an order with Messrs. Thompson and Gregory, and after several exchanges of frustrated letters and untidy redesigns, the equipment is finally ready to go into production.

There are protracted debates over the setup of the experiment - while Sophia is all for it, citing the womb-like conditions of the thing, James is vehemently opposed to the idea of constructing a sort of amniotic sac and filling it with fluid - his argument is that it would be terribly messy, which Francis is inclined to agree with, even if it would aid with conduction. A tank filled with a substance similar to amniotic fluid is similarly out of the question, so they settle on a combination of Galvani’s and Volta’s methods - a simple table for the body and several large batteries, connected to the surface of the skin via a series of conductors. Another conductor to close the circuit and connect the batteries to each other, producing discharge. Francis thinks it might just about work - with this apparatus, they do not need to wait for a thunderstorm to provide the spark of life.

On one particularly lovely day, once they have secured their new quarters, James and Francis both receive a delivery. From Mr Honey is the fine furniture to grace their new family home, and James cannot stop running his fingers over the lovingly polished curves of the rosewood writing desk in the study. Francis checks items off his mental list: the writing supplies should arrive within the week, and the books to fill the floor to ceiling shelves have been coming in a steady trickle, and there was still the chalkboard to order (Sophia’s stroke of genius), but the study is nearly ready. His mind wanders to their bedroom - their new mattress is to arrive this afternoon - and he blushes at the memory of James telling him over breakfast, rather explicitly, of all the ways they’re going to christen their new bed.

From Mr Weekes arrives a sturdy operating table, and a side table for storing equipment, which is yet to arrive from one of Dr McDonald’s contacts. Francis lingers by the larger table, rubbing some imagined offending mark off the surface. Odd to think of this brute mass of wood and iron as a birthplace. He briefly considers making it a sort of place of conception, too, but tucks the thought away for later with a small grin. Something to discuss with James at mealtime tomorrow.

They pore over a course of education for the child alongside Sophia - Francis takes responsibility for the natural sciences and philosophy, James for literature and the arts. History is to be a joint venture, as is Latin, and James insists on being the dance instructor - just as well, as he is the more graceful out of the two of them. Sophia volunteers to take on mathematics and French, and James is insistent that she also helps him with the dance lessons as she is “a much better and gracious partner than our dear Francis”, which, although an accurate observation, earns him a swat on the shoulder from Sophia, and an eye roll from Francis.

The only matter they have not been able to fully settle, and which vexes James immensely, is their child’s wardrobe - the bedroom is ready, the books for the study purchased, the nibs on the pens sharpened and the bottles of ink standing at the ready, but the mahogany armoire in the smaller bedroom is as empty as it was on the day it arrived, bar a couple of embroidered sachets of lavender James had picked up on one of his trips into town.

“James, my love, we must allow the child to choose their wardrobe for themselves,” Francis soothes him over breakfast. “We mustn’t let our tastes get in the way of theirs.”

“You’re right- I am being foolish,” James concedes, and Francis bumps his bare foot against James’ under the table, earning him a smile.

“You are simply being an attentive parent, and that is nothing to feel foolish about,” he assures James gently, before giving him a sly grin, hoping to take his mind off the matter. “Say, I’d quite like to test the strength of that table - would you be happy to act as my assistant?”

A smile unfolds at the corners of James’ beloved mouth. “I would like that very much.”

* * *

At last, it is time to select their offspring.

Francis initially consults with Dr Stanley, a surgeon who occasionally lectures at the university, about acquiring a body - he listens to Francis’ request with an air of disinterest, and instead directs him to a more junior assistant surgeon who Francis has seen once or twice before.

A diminutive Edinburgh man, Mr Goodsir is softly-spoken but brimming with energy, and exceedingly well read-up on the latest scientific papers - so much so that, for one truly insane moment, Francis is sorely tempted to let him in on the plan. In the end, however, he decides it is too unwise - the assistant surgeon might be a very amiable man and enthusiastic about Francis’ research into animal electricity, but Francis knows from personal experience that enthusiasm for the principle does not always equal to enthusiasm for the practical execution. For all he knows, Goodsir could be a devout Christian, and therefore horrified by the prospect of man taking on the part of the Almighty, and making a Lazarus out of some cadaver.

Then again, he can’t be _that_ devout if his conduct around one of the guards is anything to go by.

Nonetheless, Mr Goodsir proves to be very helpful, and Francis makes a mental note to invite him to work on some study or another in the future, or at least have him dine at the Polygon one evening. For the time being, they set up a meeting in the morgue of St George’s in a few weeks’ time, and the criteria the potential cadavers must pass muster on - James is to accompany Francis under the guise of a fellow scientist researching galvanism, and the muscular effects of offloading large electrical charges into the human body.

He feels better for having James there with him - he doesn’t fully trust himself to make the right choice, and this should be a decision they make together - for what if he chooses incorrectly? He can ascertain the level of putrefaction in a body, and check for any physical defects that are not immediately obvious, but one cannot make a choice as important as theirs on these criteria alone. He needs James there to ascertain that who they choose feels _right_ , as they are both to be parents to their creation - and if they do not succeed in choosing the first time round, well, they will persevere, until they find the one they are looking for.

It is an odd feeling, coming to a morgue and selecting a cadaver to reanimate, as if it were a butcher’s, and James and Francis buying a hunk of meat. It vaguely occurs to Francis, again, that it would have been far easier, far less risky to go to to the Foundlings together, and bring a child home, whole and warm and sweet and _alive_. But both he and James agreed that to restore life after death was as good as giving life anew - the child, in a way, would then be more _theirs_ than one plucked from an orphanage, and, shameful as it was to admit, Francis was keen to embrace any opportunity to assert his scientific parentage of the child.

They greet Goodsir, who, sweet as ever, leads them down the narrow stairs and into the basement, where the morgue is situated. Francis has been to many morgues in his life, but James looks much less confident than usual, and his face has taken on a waxy pallor, thrown into stark relief by the flickering candlelight. Francis touches his hand discreetly and gives him a small nod of encouragement, and they follow the assistant surgeon into the long, low-ceilinged room.

To Goodsir’s credit, the morgue is _immaculate_ , and the bodies neatly covered up, which is a small mercy for poor James’ constitution. There isn’t even a noticeable smell of decay, which impresses Francis more than anything, and he knows he has chosen his morgue well. The last thing he wants is to select someone whose body has already begun the process of putrefaction, as this will certainly prove more than problematic in the long run.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

There are four bodies laid out on heavy wooden tables, not unlike the one Francis had ordered from Mr Weekes, and they pause at each one like some satire of the Stations of the Cross. Goodsir stops by the first table, and uncovers the body of a slight, wasted-looking young man whose scraggly hair is matted with blood - though oddly fiery underneath the crust - and his voice is soft as he reads from the tag attached to the cadaver’s toe - a system Francis has not seen before, but rather likes the idea of.

“I have not had the chance to wash him yet, I’m afraid, but I thought this one might be well-suited for animation of the limbs - although I’m afraid there isn’t much to work with if it is a brain you are after. His entire cranial cavity was crushed, killing him instantly. His entire tongue mangled, too. Poor lad.”

The distorted pinch in the man’s bloodied face, no doubt the result of rigor mortis and a particularly unpleasant death, makes James shudder and turn away, and Francis shakes his head. “I’m afraid he is not what we are after. But- Give him a decent burial, would you?”

Goodsir smiles a rueful smile as he covers the body with a canvas again. “I am afraid it is not for me to decide. He will be lucky if he even gets a headstone. We only have his initials, and nobody has come to claim him, so he is likely to end up in the potter’s field. A shame, really - he ought to have dignity, if not in life then in death, at least.”

Looking at the next two bodies is equally troubling - a four-year old girl who had passed away from gastric fever - much too young, and clearly far too distressing for James, who makes a soft, strangled sound in his throat and turns away, Goodsir apologising profusely while he rushes to cover the body again - and a consumptive seventeen year old with rickets, who is such a pitiful sight that even Francis can barely stand it. No doubt the boy had been malnourished for most of his life - had lived in abject poverty or possibly even grew up at an orphanage, if he has nobody to claim him. Another one for the potters’ field, Francis guesses from the surgeon’s troubled expression.

When the last body is uncovered, he is so taken aback by the raw, deeply paternal pang in his chest that he nearly cries out from the shock of it. The body on the table is that of a young man no older than nineteen, with night-dark hair and the slightest hint of stubble darkening his pale cheeks. There is something delicate about his finely wrought face, the slight point and upturned slope of his nose, the long lashes of his closed eyes. The boy looks like he is asleep, and Francis can feel James touch the small of his back very lightly.

“This is Thomas,” Goodsir reads from the tag, and Francis’ heart both clenches tightly and grows inexplicably full at the name. “He has a scar on the back of his left leg, and we are not entirely sure what the cause of death is, but I am certain it is not contagious. He is otherwise in perfect condition, if you would like him.”

“He is- Yes, yes- We will take him,” James declares in a voice straining to be level, before Francis even has the chance to open his mouth, so he simply nods. All thought of scientific recognition for his thesis - “The Effects of Galvanism as applied to a Person recently Deceased, with the objective of Restoring Life and the Discovery of Animal Electricity in Man” - has left him; to hell with accolades and blasted lectures. This life they are about to restore is far more precious than that.

Once they have left the hospital, James turns to look at Francis with what looks like tears glittering in his eyes.

“Did you see, him, Francis? Our very own son!”

* * *

They return for the body under cover of the night, and the whole process is impressively smooth - Francis really ought to recommend the St George’s morgue to his colleagues. A professional less consummate than Goodsir might have tried to fob them off with half-decayed scraps, but here they were, with a boy who looked more asleep than dead, and not a whiff of putrefaction. The good surgeon washed his hair and cleaned his nails, and he even has his very own case with a bed of sawdust to travel in, like some poor approximation of a prince.

They manage to smuggle the boy into their flat without much difficulty, although turning corners is a bit of a struggle, and James has worked up quite a sweat by the time they reach their rooms. They bring the case through to the living room, setting it on the floor and transferring the body onto the operating table, sending smatterings of sawdust everywhere.

The boy is beautiful, and, at nineteen, his mind would still be responsive to new stimuli and careful nurture - but he is grown enough to not require constant attention and care after the initial period of adjustment. Sophia had also declared she would be happy to mind him if needed, though Francis would feel terrible for imposing on her further, after all she had already done to help their cause. She is not with them tonight, even though both James and Francis had asked her to attend the birth - not out of faintness of heart, which Francis knew full well had never been the case for her, but because she had been adamant that the welcoming of a child into the family ought to be a private thing, and the joyful news of their safe arrival to be shared with others once the child had settled. In a way, Francis does appreciate her insistence on their privacy, especially if the birth should prove unsuccessful, though he does not wish to dwell on that.

James brushes the boy down after the journey, then washes him again gently, taking great pains to wipe his hands and face clean, and trims his fingernails for good measure before enlisting Francis’ help in dressing the boy in clean shirtsleeves and James’ own breeches and stockings. When James leaves to wash his hands, Francis sets about combing a very precise parting into the boy’s inky black hair, and smoothing it down into place with some of James’ pomade. Dignity above all - that is how they want to welcome him into this world.

The scene before James when he comes back is painfully tender - Francis leaning over the boy on the table, gently arranging his hair and straightening out his stock and collar; the very image of devoted fatherhood. He smiles at Francis fondly, coming over to take his hand in his own, and they pause to look at their handiwork, James’ head resting on Francis’ shoulder.

“Isn’t he perfect?” James murmurs softly.

“Just so,” Francis agrees, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

A silence stretches between them for a moment. “I hope we do right by him, Francis. I hope we raise him well.”

Francis presses a gentle kiss to James’ hair. “We will do the best that we can, James. He will have a happy life with us.” Another kiss. “Go and change your clothes. We have a long night ahead of us.”

James leaves with a small nod, and Francis gets to setting up the equipment in the laboratory-cum-living room, gathering rags and ropes, filling bowls with hot water, laying out his tools and bandages.

He is putting his apron on when James emerges from their bedroom - bizarrely, he is wearing his best brocade waistcoat and newest breeches, and a pair of brand new shoes, freshly shined. Francis raises a quizzical eyebrow at him.

“You know what they say about first impressions, my dear. I want our son’s first memory of his fathers to be a pleasant one to think upon.”

“I cannot argue with that,” Francis concedes with a fond laugh, and rolls up his sleeves. He starts laying out some cloths and double-checking the conductors and the enormous batteries he had finally received from Thompson and Gregory after a prolonged delay, when he notices James fretting with his stock, and he goes over to gently unknot his worrying hands.

“Are you quite well, my love?”

James sighs, looking down at his feet. “I am worried, Francis. I worry this is a terrible idea, that we have made a grave mistake, and that this will all end in disappointment.”

“James,” he says softly, thumbing over James’ hands gently until he finally looks up again. His eyes are glistening and his mouth is downcast, and Francis feels a keen ache in his heart. Only now does he realise that what he took for frantic enthusiasm in the latter stages of their preparations, the picking of room furnishings, the scheduling of lessons, the anxiety over their arrival’s new wardrobe, and his insistence on rehearsing their first words to mark the occasion, was in fact terrible worry, and he is furious with himself for not noticing it sooner.

“James, I am so terribly sorry,” he drops his gaze, not knowing where to look in his shame. “We can always put this off, find another one, hell- We can abandon this endeavour entirely, if you so desire-” he murmurs softly, but James shakes his head, his expression resolute once more.

“No, Francis - we must go ahead. He is _perfect_ , and I do not think we will find another such as him. We must proceed. I _want_ us to proceed.”

Francis nods, leans in to kiss him chastely. “You’re going to make a wonderful father, James. Now, let us begin.”

* * *

At long last, the scene is set. James is poised by the batteries, charged with operating the large conductor, while Francis finishes attaching several smaller ones to various parts of the boy's body. He can feel a prickling sensation in his fingers, but he is certain it is not from the batteries. A child of their own, what a thing!

“Ready, James?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” James’ voice is determined now, hands gripping the large conductor.

“Close the circuit, _slowly_. I will count you down.”

_Five._ James tenses, his whole being now focused on the conductor in his hands.

_Four._ Francis licks his lips nervously.

_Three._ James’ grip on the conductor slips slightly, his palms sweaty. He readjusts, lowers the conductor slightly.

_Two._ A bead of sweat drips from Francis’ brow to the floor.

_One._ James brings the conductor further down, firmly touching it to the battery closest to Francis.

The flash and crackle of the sparks is nearly blinding, and Francis briefly regrets not fashioning protective spectacles for them both as they squint painfully towards the operating table, trying to discern any movement.

For a despairingly long time, there is nothing, and Francis is on the brink of accepting defeat, when James exclaims loudly, voice thick and strange with emotion.

“Francis! Francis, look!”

A slight tremor rattles the small conductors attached to the body - no, their _son_ \- and Francis throws himself forward to detach them from his legs and chest, hands trembling and prickling all over. He can feel the flesh under his hands thrum, singing with electricity, and hears a rasp of breath above him, and a gasp from James behind. He presses a hand against the boy’s neck, feeling for a pulse, and falls back, nearly weeping with relief when he finds it.

The boy is now flexing his fingers, and making tiny sounds in his throat, and James and Francis both fall to their knees before him, breaths caught in their throats, nerves raw, eyes stinging. There he is, then, at last. A marvel of science and God alike, radiant and resplendent, and _alive._

Thomas, their son, opens his eyes.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/191026327@N04/50604175673/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. jop is slightly de-aged to better fit the boys' criteria and further emphasise the fathers-son dynamic, so he is eight years younger than his real-life counterpart.  
> 2\. guest morgue appearances by weasy coppin, david young and our beloved rat boy supreme, e.c.
> 
> dear ozymegdias, happy frankenstein fitzier fall 2020!! i hope this little thing brings you joy c: also please don't worry, jop looks real unwell in the drawing but he is gonna regain his sweet ruddy cheeks soon enough!!
> 
> this lived in my drafts as "fitzierstein 2: electric boogaloo", as i'd initially written something _completely_ different to accompany the art but alas. it wasn't fitzier-y enough, and didn't feel Right for the art either, but perhaps that first thing i wrote will see the light of day one day. 
> 
> it should probably also go without saying that this is the first fic i've written in whew. A Long Time, and i didn't even especially plan on writing anything, so that this somehow swelled up to over 5k is beyond me, but i guess such is the power of two of my most beloved pieces of media!
> 
> p.s. would recommend giving david bowie's "kooks" a listen, as it was the song that prompted me to change my approach and write something sweeter than what i'd originally planned. "man about town" from young frankenstein is also recommended listening for this - big shoutout to my man mel brooks for finally giving us the fatherly frankenstein his baby boy deserves!!!!!


End file.
